


White Peonies

by seiyuna



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Backstory, Black Whale Arc, Enemies to Lovers, Families of Choice, Identity Reveal, M/M, kuroro-oito sibling theory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-10 21:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13510062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seiyuna/pseuds/seiyuna
Summary: Queen Oito searches for the brother she abandoned in Meteor City.When Kuroro bears a great resemblance to him, the implications are far greater than expected.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Oito cannot believe her fortune.

She serves King Nasubi in the teahouse on several occasions, humoring him with her knowledge of the world over ceramic cups and the sweet scent of camellia. He returns again and again to drink and speak with her, reveals to her that his favorite is white peony—that even if it doesn’t taste as pleasant here, her company is enough for him to finish his tea.

Enough that he invites her to come to Kakin with him.

She stutters an answer and a flush of heat rises high on her cheekbones. She isn't anywhere close to being suitable for royalty, when her blouse is singed and her skirt doesn’t look any better. Her face is bare and her dark hair is falling out of the loose bun it’s been in since she arrived to work for the evening. It’s all she can manage, when she tries to earn honest money instead of resorting to criminal means to support herself and her family. She lowers her head, apologizing that she appears to be so unrefined.

But King Nasubi only laughs and touches her hand, finding her so very charming.

She cannot fathom which part of her he falls for. He smiles widely, and it is a smile unconstrained by the worries that should plague a monarch, undisturbed by the deaths of his people.

If he wants her, if he’s willing to give her the wealth and comfort that can only be found in her faraway dreams, then there will be no one else for her but him.

Leaving behind her siblings and parents, she walks away without looking back.

The scent of white peonies follows her all the way to the Kakin Empire.

 

 

 

The air is refreshingly clean in Kakin's capital.

This is the first time she’s been away from Meteor City, and it’s the strangest thing. She has read that air pollution is rampant in Kakin, but perhaps that can’t even compare to the scent of ash, of blood and gunpowder. High walls and vibrant hues stretch into the distance rather than the empty expanse of dirt and rubbish, and the roads are all broad and paved stones that feel much better than the earth beneath her feet.

It’s the loveliest place she has ever seen, and she walks alongside King Nasubi and numerous royal attendants while immersing in every sight.

When King Nasubi brings her presence to the attention of the other wives in the palace, she’s met with a succession of gasps and contemptuous stares. He intends to marry her—only a girl from the slums—and the desperate efforts from his entire family are not enough to sway his heart.

In a whirlwind of a ceremony, she weds him, swathed in a robe of red silk befitting of a queen.

 

 

 

The early days are like those out of the stories that formed her understanding of romance. King Nasubi bequeaths upon her a garden, inviting her to spend as much time in gardening and flower arrangement as she wishes. He indulges her with luxurious silks and unsurpassed jewels, bathing her in everything she never had a chance to appreciate. There is the promise of a bright future by her husband’s side, and that is nothing short of pleasant.

Oito belongs to a different caste of life now, and while some days she pours tea for herself with practiced motions, most days she does not. It is a task that belongs to the servants, but it is not something that she is willing to give up.

When her footsteps resound through the hallways, the white fabric of her gown trailing behind her, she sometimes crosses paths with the other wives. The cold and disapproving stares she receives is nothing new and she smiles unapologetically at them, assuming the role of her new status with a newfound grace. She quickly earns respect from the servants, from who she is rather than what she is—

King Nasubi’s eighth wife.

 

 

 

They come together during the evening for one thing, and one thing only.

She rests next to King Nasubi on the bed, unsure but also expectant. He leans in to kiss her, but she turns her head away, and his lips meets her cheek instead. She only lets him kiss her once, on the day of their marriage, because there is still something too intimate about this for her. She’s not certain if she can truly give up everything about herself to him.

King Nasubi reminds her, slyly, that she has everything—his heart, his name, his fortune.

But all he has is this.

If she has to bear the expectations, the burdens of continuing the family line, she will.

 

 

 

The novelty wears off quickly.

No matter how sweet the wine is or how exquisite the dishes are, they all grow bitter on Oito's palate. She spends less time with King Nasubi now, when his endless greed has distanced her from him. She cannot confess the matter on her mind to him—when she has exchanged her family for a lifestyle of luxury, there is no doubt that the weight of guilt is heavy in her heart.

Always, she finds herself searching for something when she regards her reflection in the length of the mirror. The ornateness of gold paints the curves of her body and gemstones adorn the lines of her dress, glinting along the layers of fabric. When the cloth drapes across her shoulders, the weight grows heavier and heavier, threatening to smother her entirely. She understands the necessity for pageantry, but even so, it will never be enough to cloak the girl from the slums.

Her dark hair, sleek and straight across her forehead but wavy across her back, is inherited from her mother. Brushing the strands away from her face, she thinks of the times her elder siblings teased her for her hair, when everyone else possessed hair as fine as silk. But most of all, she thinks of how her youngest brother bore the greatest resemblance to their mother. 

When the burden of five children became too much to bear, they abandoned the youngest in the outskirts of the city. It is something that she has always thought about, has willed herself to forget, when he doesn't even know that she exists. Tears well up in her eyes, and she banishes them with the sleeve of her dress.

She confides to her closest servants, of how she longs to see her family. Barred from traveling to Meteor City alone and without a method of delivering letters to her homeland, she sends a messenger in her place.

 

 

 

“Please forgive me, Queen Oito.”

Her servant looks at her, solemn, more honest than anyone she has seen in this palace. He takes a steadying breath, and delivers a set of photographs to her. Ash and charred remnants mark the demise of not only her home, but the teahouse as well.

“Five remains were found at the site.”

There is no room for words yet. She can’t quite prevent the broken sound that tears from her throat, can’t stop the way her chest aches. Her body trembles from the knowledge, from the beginnings of a sob, and her servant deftly comes to her side, holding her hand throughout it all. If anything, the tears come faster.

Oito has never mourned like this before, never so wholeheartedly. Her servant has never seen her like this either, and he does his best to hold her together, because she is falling apart. She does not scream, because that is unbefitting of her, so she does not scream for her father, her mother, her sisters, her brothers. She does not scream, but she weeps until she cannot bear to anymore.

That night, she does not want to sleep, but does not want to be awake either. She swathes herself in the suffocating warmth of her blankets, answering to no one, and wonders if she can bury herself in her grief.

 

 

  

The life growing within her makes it better, makes it worse.

Sometimes she feels hopeful, if it means she can protect her child.

Other times she feels guilty, when someone like her has no right to bear a child, when her parents and siblings will never be able to meet them. She sleeps alone in her bed chamber and exists in a neverending haze of weariness. The fatigue that plagues her in the early mornings, the increased whispers in the hallways, the physicians that descend upon her—only now does it truly sink in.

Her husband cares for one thing—that the child would be male and carry his name, and for that, she hopes they will be a girl.

 

 

 

King Nasubi declares a succession war, and her world will never be the same again.

It’s easy to hate someone like him. The birth of her daughter should celebrated, and instead, she fears for her future.

When the other queens and princes arrive to pay their respects and offer their congratulations, she cannot help but narrow her eyes in suspicion when they linger in her periphery. Even Prince Momoze, sweetest of them all, knits clothing for Woble by her own hand and still makes Oito wary of her company.

A future where their children will be lying in their graves, holding white flowers in hands folded above their chests, is not a future she wants to be part of.

She cannot afford to lose her daughter too.

 

 

 

For many months, Oito pours tea for the dead.

She prepares five cups with the finest tea leaves, because when she had been a girl, when she had been a daughter, that is what she did. The sixth cup is never filled, when that would mean mourning for her youngest brother.

Seizing the power that comes with her status, she requests in secrecy that her servants and messengers search for her remaining family, despite that there is no chance that he is even living. She divulges as much as she possibly can—the district where her family abandoned him, the age he should be, and what she expects him to look like now.

When the seasons come and go, when the lotus blossoms are in full bloom above summer waters, he comes to her in the form of the photographs. They are acquired from a fight at Heaven’s Arena—one so severe that it is said to have devastated the upper floors of the building. There's a young man depicted in his twenties, his face blank without a smile. But with dark hair and even darker eyes, he looks just as she remembers.

 _My youngest brother_ , Oito thinks, _is alive_.

She holds her grief at bay, for a later time. It's one thing to leave him to suffer through a difficult childhood, when she couldn't do anything to help. It's another thing entirely to stand by and watch him slip through her grasp, and there's nothing within her that is capable of doing that.

She would rather die than abandon her family again.

 

 

 

“I have a request,” Oito says, almost apologetic. “Another that extends beyond your duties.”

It is well into the evening now, and while the other servants and guards are resting, Kurapika continues to look over her. Over the expanse of the table, she places several photos in full view for him. She asks too much of him at times, but he is more than willing to take a look at them.

“I’ve heard that a man dressed in this ensemble has boarded the ship.” A photo where he's dressed in that gaudy fur coat makes her shake her head, but the sight of his face fills her heart with hope and relief. “Will you help me find him?”

Kurapika's face quickly grows pale. He makes no effort to respond, until the photos capture Woble's attention too. She makes a soft sound of contentment, pressing her small hand against the pictures.

A little wary, he nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I was lying to myself when I said I wouldn't upload any new stories. This was sitting in my drafts and I saw that a similar theory was floating around, so I wanted to share. I'm still on hiatus, though.
> 
> Life is still rough, but I hope you enjoyed reading this. It's my first time writing a kurokura fic that isn't entirely centered on the pairing itself. It's also really interesting to see how things would change if Kurapika has to protect his enemy's family as well.
> 
> Please leave a comment. I'd love to know what you think about this fic so far.
> 
> You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

 

Kurapika has been chasing ghosts since his homeland fell, forging his way through blood and loss and sheer tenacity. He remembers vividly—the scent of incense rising, the feel of his mother’s touch on his face, her hands loving enough to mend and strong enough to protect. 

Perhaps that is why he can see the reflection of something familiar in Queen Oito. Sometimes her hands tremble like leaves, only steady when she’s holding her daughter in her arms. Sometimes she wavers in the circumstances of the succession war, but seeks closure, any kind of closure, maintaining her resolve in searching for a figure she only knows through photos.

“May I ask,” Kurapika starts, and the beat of his heart is furious in his chest, “why you are looking for this man?”

Her gaze softens. “Is he someone you know?”

 _Yes_ , Kurapika wants to answer, when an unspoken name spills like blood on the grass of his village, like stolen eyes and desecrated bodies. She is far more perceptive than he gives her credit for, but he is uncertain if he should settle for the truth.

“Would you tell me what you know?” Queen Oito asks, gently lifting one of the photos from the table. As Prince Woble is cradled in her arms, she follows the gesture, grasping at the picture curiously.   

“He has profound mastery of Nen,” Kurapika says, his tone charged with a harsh spite. He senses her flinch and eases his expression into something more neutral. “During the deathmatch, he did not hesitate to utilize the cruelest tactics in order to eliminate his opponent. He's a very dangerous man.”

Between them, words are left unsaid in the air. If Queen Oito is surprised, she doesn't show it, because there's a steadfast faith in the darkness of her eyes, acknowledging his words without hesitation.

“He's also someone who would be a formidable ally.” She receives the incredulous look on his features with a soft smile, and he cannot remember the last time he has seen her smile like this. Her tone grows low, as if she is imparting one of her greatest secrets to him. “I would like to speak with him, even if he does not wish to see me.” 

“I don't quite understand.” 

She reveals everything, when Kurapika does not. She divulges her reasons and traces the lines of the photos until he can understand what she's speaking about. There is no weariness at the corners of his eyes, no regret in the furrow of his brows, but like overlapping images, Kurapika can see the ghost of another face, and it's far more unnerving than he expects it to be.

 

 

 

When the first week culminates at the ceremony hall, the Kakin royalty and their most influential passengers indulge in the false grandeur of another banquet. It is becoming increasingly apparent that entertaining the wealthy is a must, despite that some of them care little for social interactions, putting on airs for the sake of their reputation. It feels too much like theatrics, like polite words belying corruption.

Kurapika remains quiet and formal by Queen Oito’s side as she offers her greetings to the guests, taking advantage of the situation to survey their surroundings. The opportunity to interact with the Fourth Prince is almost in reach.

But there’s the flicker of something familiar, something that makes his blood run cold. He turns his head and instead of finding Tserriednich, an unmistakable figure lingers at the edge of his periphery. A fall of black hair across a bandaged forehead, a sleek and tailored suit, and a vengeance rivalling Kurapika’s own within dark eyes. Kurapika has enough ghosts without having to handle the ones waiting for him here.

Just as their eyes meet, Kuroro turns on his heel.

As Queen Oito has yet to notice, Kurapika nods towards Bill, not even acknowledging the look of confusion on his face, before leaving their side in a rush. He watches as Kuroro steps into a hallway leading to the restroom and follows.

The door falls soundlessly when a guest leaves after washing his hands. There's a lack of presence here, and suddenly, Kurapika’s being pulled into one of the stalls, pressed against the wall. The force slams his head back and he can't quite mask the hurt that flickers across his features. Kuroro regards him with an unreadable stare, fingers splayed on the wall on either side of his head.

Is Kuroro going to fight him here? Given his newfound skills, Kurapika is facing a fight that he isn't prepared for and has a low chance of winning. He can hardly think over the sound of his heartbeat, the heightened rush of blood in his eardrums.

His panic is buried underneath a mask of indifference. “Why are you here?” 

“I could ask the same to you.”

What is he supposed to do now? Demand that Kuroro come with him? Reveal that the Eighth Queen has requested his presence?

His words fail him, evading him entirely, when Kuroro looks at him like he’s insignificant.

“I’ve had enough of you chasing after me,” Kuroro says flatly. It’s awfully arrogant coming from someone like him, when Kurapika wouldn’t have spared a second thought about him if not for Queen Oito. His chains nearly take form, surging forward in a rush to bind Kuroro once more, but he stops himself. “You have nothing to do with my task at hand.”

Anger simmers beneath his composure, because how dare Kuroro speak to him as if he's nothing but a minor inconvenience. “When this _task_ is a threat to my employer's wellbeing, you can expect that I will come after you.”

The tension between them is not as simple to write off as hostility between enemies, because when Kuroro leans in closer, Kurapika can see how familiar his features are. He can't deny with absolute certainty that they're unrelated, when there's a parallel in the shape of his eyes, the fan of dark lashes, the slant of his jaw. He doesn't quite know where to go from here, but Kuroro has a warning to offer.

“Stay out of my sight,” Kuroro says, low and derisive, “or I will not hesitate to kill you too.”

 _Fuck you,_ Kurapika thinks, _and every bit of power you think you have_.

Perhaps two years ago, he would have desperately engaged Kuroro, doing everything in his power to protect his pride. But he's different now, and he's not the only one. The unperturbed calm that he once saw in Kuroro's eyes has become disturbed with something more malevolent, threatening to burn everything that gets too close to him, and that's not something Kurapika wants to get involved with.

It takes effort to watch silently as Kuroro leaves.

He manages, if only just barely.

 

 

 

“Is everything alright?”

Queen Oito turns to him once they are no longer within hearing distance of the guards, the lines of her face fraught with concern. Kurapika finds it unbecoming that he’s making the very people he’s supposed to protect worry over him.

“Just fine,” Kurapika answers, when he surely looks like he's seen a ghost. He keeps his eyes forward as he accompanies her and Prince Woble to their living quarters, willing himself not to reveal anything else.

When he leaves the banquet without any sustained injuries, without any new leads, all he can think of is how the situation could have been far worse, could have gone so many ways that it did not.

 

 

 

It's too soon, but not entirely unexpected, because Prince Momoze is the first to die.

Kurapika has never seen Queen Oito so furious at him, so regretful in their inability to act. But his loyalty lies with her and Prince Woble, not with anyone else. He stands by her side as she buries her face in her hands and silently grieves, knowing fully well what it’s like when someone takes and takes and takes until there is nothing left to spare. 

Beyond the chaos and confusion, the years lost from his lifespan, Kurapika remains focused. He has no other choice, when their only other surviving bodyguard is Bill, who continues to sacrifice sleep in order to watch over them. The evening draws closer and his instinct compels to him to stay with Queen Oito, with Prince Woble, because they are too susceptible to danger, but instinct also urges him to investigate any further threats.

And it’s right.

 

 

 

The spill of blood is thick in the air.

Dread sinks into Kurapika’s heart, weighing him down, slowing his steps in the passageway. He stops and reminds himself to breathe. It is difficult when the metallic tang of blood lingers at the back of his throat.

Amidst the fallen bodies of Kakin soldiers, there’s a familiar form slumped against the wall. Kuroro’s eyes are closed and his head is tipped against the wall, revealing the stark line of his throat—an awful contrast to the slit throats of the bodies on the floor. He’s a mess of blood loss and broken bones, and the slow, unsteady, rise of his chest is the only indication that he’s still breathing.

He’s vulnerable.

It's pathetic that Kuroro's in this state after spouting such arrogant words. The sight makes something stir within Kurapika’s heart, cold and familiar. It rises with the need for blood and the splinter of bone, and when he sees the curve of Kuroro’s neck, it tempts him. 

Somewhere beneath his indignation is a faint realization, because he knows what Kuroro is capable of and even the Kakin army will be hardly enough to spill his blood. It's almost laughable when he considers the depths of Kuroro's Nen abilities. Another threat must be in their proximity, something far greater, but there's not enough time to think about it now. With utmost caution, he kneels beside Kuroro and reaches out slowly.

Before he can do anything else, a hand seizes his wrist with an unrelenting grip. He stills in surprise, not even making the slightest sound, and tries to pull away.

“What are you doing?”

Kuroro’s eyes are open and looking at him as if he’s the most despicable sight in the world. It’s nearly painful when Kurapika wrenches his grip free. His thoughts are racing behind a blank facade, lacking in answer.

“Are you going to kill me?” Kuroro asks again.

There's a moment of tense silence. It's almost as if Kuroro has accepted his downfall, when there’s no effort to retaliate. Kurapika breathes quietly, perfectly steady because he can’t allow himself to lose the slightest amount of composure, or else he will risk losing all of it.

“No,” he answers in finality.

Kuroro’s gaze flicks to him, then away, dismissive. “Your concern is unwarranted.”

Kurapika almost laughs, because how dare Kuroro think that he has enough room in his heart to care for someone like him. He grabs Kuroro by the collar of his coat, revelling in how the force evokes a startled flinch, and deliberately looks him in the eye.

“If it were up to me,” Kurapika says, “I would leave you to die here.”

 

 

 

He has sealed Kuroro’s Nen once.

He can do it ten times over.

This time is much easier than the last, when Kuroro is too exhausted to react, and he lets his hands remember their motions thereafter. Stealing Kuroro’s ability is feasible too, but that would mean forcing the necessary information from a dying man. Another time, then.

He suppresses the hatred within him, amassed on behalf of those he loved and lost and himself, and it has to be the most difficult thing in the world. He isn’t a medic, it isn’t in his power to save Kuroro, and yet—

The cross-linked chain glows a pale green and he searches for his Nen, the depleting supply he has left, and draws it towards his fingers, reinforcing skin, muscle, and bone. His aura seeps beneath Kuroro’s skin and throughout his body, encouraging the healing of deep lacerations and broken ribs and damaged lungs. His eyes are burning scarlet, all that's left of his bloodline, and when he harnesses this power to heal someone other than himself, it feels nothing like redemption.

“Breathe,” Kurapika commands.

Kuroro’s gaze hardens, and he stills.

He breathes.

Kurapika catches the slightest flinch on his face, a touch of pain with his next inhale, and it’s over within the matter of moments. Even if he has mended some of Kuroro’s injuries, there's no way to compensate for the earlier blood loss. But it's enough to keep him alive.

“I’ve healed as much as I can for now,” Kurapika says firmly, leaving the scars alone. “You will have to rely on your body for the rest.”

Kuroro’s eyes are dark, and Kurapika almost thinks that he sees something in them. He can’t have, though, when Kuroro continues to stare unblinkingly at him, his expression betraying no sort of emotion. 

Injuries like these will heal with time, but the loss that Kuroro has imparted upon him will never disappear. He thinks of the sacred lands of his village, stained with blood and bodies with sightless eye sockets. Thinks of the slaughter of his family with nothing but the cold intent in Kuroro’s eyes and wonders why he's doing this in the first place.

“You can thank Queen Oito later,” Kurapika says to silence.

 

 

 

Kurapika pulls Kuroro’s arm over his shoulder, steadying him on his feet, and fervently hopes that they can return to Prince Woble’s room unnoticed. The massacre in such great proximity to the princes’ living quarters is another area of concern.

The haze of blood loss nearly overtakes Kuroro multiple times, and Kurapika has to jerk him violently to keep him awake. Kuroro seems to manage, but the moment they step foot into Prince Woble’s quarters, the draw of unconsciousness became too difficult to ignore. Kurapika doesn’t even bother catching him, letting his body meet the floor with a dull sound, and takes pleasure in seeing him lying at his feet.

Kurapika puts a finger to his lip when Bill comes to their side, a reminder to stay quiet this late in the evening.

“Is this—?”

“Wait until the morning to inform the Queen. Can you help me get him to my room?” Kurapika says in a hushed tone. “I’ve had enough of him for one day.”

“Did you kidnap him or something?” Despite the wariness evident on his face, he helps pull Kuroro upright. “He doesn’t look so good.”

“He’s not dead,” Kurapika answers dryly. The blood on Kuroro’s skin accentuates the pallor of his face, but he looks much better than when he was bleeding to death. “Whatever that was done to him was extensive, and I’ll have a better understanding of what happened when he wakes. A medic will be unnecessary as long as I keep watch over him.”

“So you're going to keep him in your bedroom tonight?” Bill raises an eyebrow in accusation. “Why not one of the unoccupied servant rooms?”

Kurapika is certain that a repulsed look crosses his face. “It will be easier to keep an eye on him. Please don't get any strange ideas.”

“Right,” Bill says, unconvinced.

With their combined efforts, they manage to lay Kuroro down on his bed. Kurapika takes this moment of quietude to quickly relay the situation to Bill, who is more than willing to reach out to their points of contact. Getting involved in another layer of political disruption, especially when Kuroro seems to have been the only living suspect at the scene, will prove to be troublesome. 

Kurapika frowns at the subject of his attention. He doesn’t even stir as Kurapika shrugs his coat off and unbuttons his dress shirt, peeling the blood-soaked cloth away from his body. The last thing he wants is for his room to carry the fresh scent of blood.

Bill clears his throat. “Should I leave?”

Kurapika’s hands pause in their motions, just as he’s about to remove the shirt in its entirety. There’s the slightest hint of a tattoo and he decides to wait until Bill leaves to expose it. “I’m almost done here. We can reconvene in the morning.”

Bill nods, looking somewhat awkward. “Good night then. Let me know if you need anything else.”

The door quietly falls shut, leaving Kurapika to his own thoughts. At this point, he doesn’t know what the _hell_ he's doing. He had expected a burdensome pursuit in order to locate Kuroro on this ship, and instead, Kuroro is splayed out on his bed without any care for the world around him. He only hopes that his efforts will be worth it tomorrow, when Queen Oito will be able to meet face-to-face with him. 

No amount of love, no relation to a bloodline could shape Kuroro into the brother she wants him to be.

Kurapika hopes she will understand that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find a fic where Kuroro is chasing after Hisoka on the ship, so here we are. My [A/B/O fics](https://archiveofourown.org/series/648590) focused on Kuroro pursuing Kurapika on the ship instead.
> 
> If canon ends up disproving major aspects of this story, then I might retcon a few scenes. It's really interesting to invert the “Kurapika is forced to join the Spiders” trope to “Kuroro pledges his loyalty to Prince Woble” or something like that. 
> 
> And just a random thought, but I'm fond of Bhavimania or Babimyna or whatever his name is. I'd love to write something where he has a crush on Kurapika and Kuroro's just highkey annoyed at everyone that seems to fall for Kurapika. I'm only half-kidding.
> 
> If you've read this far, please leave a comment. I'd love to skip to the part where Woble wins the succession war and Kuroro and Kurapika have their honeymoon in Kakin, but unfortunately, we aren't there yet. +:(
> 
> You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

 

Kuroro wins the fight at Heaven's Arena, and this is the price he pays.

It is the fine line dividing Kortopi’s head from the rest of his body and the ghost of a card tracing Kuroro’s neck, strangling the words from his throat. It is the way Shalnark hangs from his wrists and the dull ache that throbs in Kuroro’s own, reminding him that all his joints are safely in place, unbroken. It is the darkest depths of his mind conjuring scenarios to understand how their bodies fractured and why their breathing severed and where their blood spilled.

It is the grief that numbs his chest, deep and cold and constant as the chains that once encased his heart, drowning him in ghosts that he somehow carved with his own hands.

Kuroro doesn’t know how Hisoka survives, but he does. The aftermath of destruction, the scent of fresh blood pervading the air, all of this leads to a man dressed in a suit emblazoned with the symbol of the Hunter Association. At the bend of the passageway, he’s crouched over a body, waiting for someone, expectant.

“Alone, I see.”

Kuroro is tucked behind the wall, making no effort to answer, and the silence between them is fraught with tension. Disregarding the bodies sprawled at his feet, they’re the only ones present in the passageway.

“I wonder why?” It's a borrowed face, a borrowed body, but his words undoubtedly belong to Hisoka, laced with contempt and an edge of malice. He shakes his head regretfully, wrenching a card from the throat of the corpse. “Your Spiders are so loyal to you, but it’s cost you so much already.”

Kuroro steps out of the deep shadows and does not waver.

“You know nothing of loyalty.”

A grin, slow and treacherous, slants on Hisoka’s lips. “Don't I?”

Long fingers flick the blood from the edge of the card. With his other hand, he searches the pocket of his suit and raises his hand, flaunting a strip of turquoise cloth between his fingers—

The kind that Machi binds her hair with.

It happens again without warning. The depths of loss rises within him, marked by incomprehension of how Hisoka’s world should be torn asunder as much as his and why it is _not._ The cloth deliberately slips from Hisoka’s fingers, falling before his eyes, a macabre reminder of each and every sacrifice from his companions.

Vengeance beats a rhythm in Kuroro’s heart, and he does nothing to appease it. Conjuring his book, he swears to himself, swears to all of them that he’ll destroy Hisoka a second time if he has to.

 

 

 

Only he doesn't.

Sentimentality make him careless, when he can’t afford to be.

The impact to his head leaves a gash, and although his tolerance is great, he cannot ignore the sensation of blood running down his temple, over his eyes, his neck. Hisoka takes a moment to appraise how blood gathers at his collarbone, delights in it as the white fur of his coat is stained with a vivid red.

There’s a hand fisted in his hair, and Hisoka drags him to his knees, forcing his head back at a painful angle and holding him there as he leans down to sneer.

“I’ll make sure you’re the last to die,” Hisoka says, amorously caressing his hair, but the tenderness proves to be false when his grip tightens. “Watch closely, as I kill each and every one of your Spiders.”

Kuroro grits his teeth, refuses to give Hisoka the satisfaction of seeing him suffer, and looks up with dark, steady eyes belying a furious wildfire.

If he doesn’t get to keep his companions, then Hisoka doesn’t get to keep his life.

 

 

 

In the heart of overwhelming pain, fading consciousness, there is light.

A gentle glow soothes the ache that sears through his very being, easing over his skin and seeping into the depths of his body. He focuses on that feeling for a moment and thinks of how he’s never felt something so intimate. The next breath he takes is strangled in his lungs, like it could be his very first or very last, but it gets easier from there.

It’s like he’s dying and being reborn again, little by little. He doesn’t understand how someone so dark and oppressive, from what he remembers from two years ago, can heal and mend like it comes naturally to him. But he doesn’t dwell on it for long, when the drought of Nen is begging his body for replenishment.

There’s a voice in his ears, a glimpse of eyes shining scarlet, and everything is lost to darkness.

 

 

 

The return to consciousness comes with a vertigo that floods his senses. Kuroro lies where he is, blinking away uncertain dreams, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The room is dark, dawn still hours away, but even the darkness does nothing to appease the dizzying sensation of everything spinning around him. Beneath him is the softness of fine linens rather than the cold floor, and for a moment, he cannot reconcile where he is.

But he survives.

A sense of urgency rushes through him—he should search for the whereabouts of his remaining companions—but he stops himself. He gingerly presses a hand over his chest and slides it over his abdomen, finding that his upper body is bare in its entirety. The scars carved into his skin remind him of failure, but there are more important things to consider.

He breathes, and there’s no fluid from ruptured lungs, no throbbing pain from fractured ribs. There’s the ache of overextended muscles, the burn of healed skin, the familiar starkness of having his Nen sealed, and he survives.

At his bedside, blond hair spills across the sheets. From where he’s seated on the chair, Kurapika rests on the edge of the bed, his forearms propped to support his head. The curve of his back looks uncomfortable, but the sound of soft and steady breathing tells Kuroro that he’s asleep, so he doesn’t reach out.

Kuroro shifts his weight to his side, but the slightest movement is enough to draw a creak from the bed, enough to make Kurapika stir from the depths of slumber. When lashes sweep up and scarlet eyes widen, there’s no rage, no hatred in them, although he has every right. Only a brief flicker of panic that bleeds into recognition.

This time, the chains don’t come. Kuroro makes an effort to rise, but hands that aren’t as violent as remembers them to be presses against his shoulders and pushes him back.

“Do not undo my efforts,” Kurapika warns quietly, and the lines of exhaustion are carved into his features. “I refuse to heal you again.”

“I’m alright,” Kuroro says, though Kurapika did not ask. He heaves himself to an upright position, but his head is spinning and he can hardly keep himself up before he’s burying his face in his hands. Beside him, there’s a snort, and Kuroro grits his teeth. “Where are my clothes?”

There’s the sound of quiet footsteps meeting the floor, moving away from the bed. “Being cleaned. When Queen Oito wakes, you will make yourself presentable in her presence.”

Kuroro slides his palms over his face, steadying the images that waver before his eyes, forcing himself to remain upright when all his body wants to do is lie down. An exhale to steady himself, and he can think again.

It is an interesting notion that he should leave a lasting impression on the Queen rather than the Prince. Then again, her daughter is a mere infant lacking any true political power. “It appears that I don’t have a choice.”

The flick of a switch, and light floods the room. The sudden brightness is blinding. “You are not our prisoner, but there is a debt that needs to be repaid.” 

Kuroro looks up at him, vision still blurry at the edges. “Is that what this is?”

It makes no sense, why his life should defer to Queen Oito. But Kurapika’s always been rather confusing, so tireless and fiercely dedicated to his clan, yet prepared to throw everything away for the sake of his companions. Perhaps he should consider this a victory, depriving Kuroro of his Nen twice now.

But he doesn’t. He only exhales, controlled and careful, and turns away to ready himself for the day. Kuroro regards him carefully, looking for certain motions to give away his thoughts, but there is little to go by. This isn’t the only time he’s watched Kurapika get dressed, having turned his back to the enemy—the first was when he rid of his disguise in Yorknew.

The wardrobe is stark with professional attire, lacking any of the tribal garb he once saw Kurapika wearing. Kurapika shrugs out of his dress shirt to slide his arms into a new shirt, fingers deftly working the buttons until they reach the collar. The suit jacket settles over his shoulders easily, embroidered with the familiar symbol of the Hunter Association, and Kurapika adjusts the lapels to straighten them. His hands are steady he drapes a black tie around his collar, slipping the end through a clean knot, silk spilling over like water.

The slacks should come next, but Kurapika stops and looks back at him.

“I don’t particularly care,” he says absently, “but you clearly got your ass handed to you. How?”

The words stab at his chest, and Kuroro does not let it show. “You certainly sound like you care.”

“I don’t,” Kurapika is quick to affirm, casting a long-suffering look in his direction. “You are in no position to keep secrets.”

He’s right, but Kuroro doesn’t plan on sharing unless there’s the potential for a fair proposition. The fact that Kurapika is a bodyguard for one of the Princes and a newly appointed member of the Zodiacs means that there is a need to uphold the welfare of his employers and hinder potential criminal activities on the ship. But engaging Kuroro is one thing and keeping him alive is another—and he can’t be certain what his role would be in the scheme of things.

It's a calculated risk, but it's a risk he will take.

“Hisoka is on the ship," Kuroro divulges, “and he’s much closer than you think.”

He doesn’t miss the way Kurapika pales. “How is that possible—”

A soft rasp against wood, the sound of footsteps, prevents him from finishing his words. Kurapika looks mildly annoyed, but his expression eases when the bedroom door opens. A woman peeks out from the edge, inclining her head.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted anything.” When she meets Kuroro’s eyes, she straightens up and offers a deeper bow. “I just wanted to inform you that the shirt could not be salvaged. The blood left too much of a stain.”

“Thank you, Shimano.” Kurapika receives a neatly folded pile of clothing from her, his coat included. “It’s alright—I can just lend a shirt to him.”

Shimano nods. “Will you join the Queen for breakfast when you’re ready?”

“Yes, please give us a few minutes.”

When she excuses herself, closing the door with a quiet click, Kurapika turns his attention back to him. He removes a dress shirt by the hanger and tosses it on the bed.

“It might be too small, but it’s all we have. Get dressed,” Kurapika says, pointing to Kuroro’s hair, “and tame that uncontrollable mess of yours.”

 

 

 

“Good morning. Have a seat, you two.”

Queen Oito smiles in their direction, the smallest quirk of lips but still honest. The darkness under her eyes tells him that she hasn't slept in days, much like the rest of them, yet she is willing to receive him kindly. Their meals are already laid out across the table, and while Kurapika takes the seat next to Shimano, Kuroro assumes the seat across from him, next to the second bodyguard. With Prince Woble absent, she must presumably be sleeping or avoiding the potential risk that being in Kuroro’s presence insinuates.

Her gaze is weighted with curiosity, and although there is caution in her eyes, there is no coldness. “Would you like some tea?”

Kurapika regards him just as carefully and waits for his answer, keeping any overt hostility at bay. While staring at Kuroro, he begins making progress with his meal, spoon clinking against a bowl of rice porridge, when Kuroro has yet to touch any of the food. 

By way of habit, Kuroro’s manners are impeccable. “That would nice, thank you.”

Shimano stands up to retrieve the drinkware, but Queen Oito waves her away. “Let me prepare some tea for our guest.”

“But—”

Queen Oito rises from the center of the table, moving towards the kitchen. “Please leave this to me.”

“She’s never made us tea before. You should be honored,” Bill whispers to him, too serious.

Kuroro doesn’t know what to make of this—being welcomed at a table where servants and bodyguards accompany the Queen at a meal, eating like a family. Even Shimano blinks away the bewildered expression from her face, not sure of how to react to Queen Oito's gesture as well. But all of their plates are the same size and even their portions are equivalent, suggesting that they often come together to eat like this. It still doesn’t make much sense, his lack of appetite doesn't help, but he’s willing to go along with it for now.

It doesn’t take long for Queen Oito to return with a small tray, a set of five porcelain cups, carrying them over to the table on her own. When she leans over to set a cup in front of him, hands slightly trembling, he’s hit with the strong, earthy scent of pu’er. It’s a dark red brew that reminds him of the tea that Pakunoda never liked, with the scent of old books and smoke.

Kuroro studies the color of the tea as it ripples, watches the steam rise from the surface. His training has allowed him to develop resistance to some poisons, but his capabilities are nowhere as extensive as someone from the Zoldyck family.

“Is it not to your liking?” As if reading his thoughts, Queen Oito lifts the cup to her lips. “The tea is not poisoned, if that is what worries you. I have no reason to do such a thing.”

“You should know that Queen Oito makes the best tea in all of Kakin,” Shimano adds thoughtfully. “Even the King himself acknowledges this fact.”

“I did not mean offense,” Kuroro admits. When Kurapika takes a sip of his tea, he mirrors the gesture, and it tastes like smoke and fire on his tongue. It’s not as appealing as it appears to be, and surely Pakunoda would agree.

Despite her nervousness, perhaps due to his reaction to the taste, she smiles. “Is it familiar to you?”

“I suppose,” Kuroro says. He thinks of the times when Pakunoda brewed tea for him, despite how much he preferred coffee, and he accepted out of politeness. He thinks of the joy on her face when he gifted her a new tea set and how much she enjoyed cultivating her hobbies, no matter how small they were. It would be a lie to say that he didn't feel anything when Kurapika is seated directly across from him. “A friend of mine was an ardent tea enthusiast.”

She absently traces the edge of her cup with a finger. “This kind of darkened tea is primarily produced in Meteor City. Without the need of rich sceneries or plantations, the leaves are harvested from wild trees grown without human intervention. It’s fascinating, how they’re able to grow in a place like that.”

“That is correct.” Kuroro raises his cup to his lips, only to stop himself. “You speak as if you’ve been there.”

“I was born there,” Queen Oito answers without hesitation, regal and unapologetic. The others do not appear to be surprised, as if this is a fact well-learned. “Though Woble was born in Kakin, I have never forgotten what life was like in my homeland.”

Something tense pulls at Kuroro’s chest, not entirely unpleasant, and he tilts his head, unsure of what to say.

“When I learned of individuals from Meteor City on this ship, I wished to receive them as proper guests.” Queen Oito looks at him without any hostility, only the weariness that comes with age and experience. It makes him think of what she could have possibly experienced to go from rags to riches, how there's something humbling about her despite her royal status. “Unfortunately, circumstances have not been in our favor. Things have been difficult, and because we have lost so many of our bodyguards, I wanted to meet you and extend an opportunity to you.”

Kuroro blinks, and then says quietly, “I’m curious to know what this would mean.”

“I am vaguely familiar with your Nen capabilities from what I learned from Kurapika,” Queen Oito says. She not only knows of Nen, but also appears to be a Nen user herself. But Kurapika doesn't know everything about his abilities, that he knows for certain. “I would like you to join us as Woble’s bodyguard, and in exchange, I will do my best to compensate for your services.”

Kuroro catches the softest, indrawn breath from Kurapika, something between pain and surprise. Despite being preoccupied with his thoughts, from the revelation of Hisoka’s presence, no doubt, his attention on Kuroro has not wavered.

“I appreciate the offer, but I am not alone on this ship,” Kuroro says, although he’s not in any position to make a proposal without his Nen. He’s doubtful that this is an ordinary role if it necessitates experience with Nen, especially when they could hire any old bodyguard. “My companions and I have an agenda to accomplish, and searching for them concurrently will prove to be difficult to balance.”

Queen Oito visibly hesitates at his rejection, and for the briefest of moments, her gaze defers to Kurapika.

“That is exactly why you should accept,” Kurapika interjects, looking as if he hates himself for admitting it. “I can’t say that this is in our best interest, but I agree with Queen Oito. Should you accept, I have the ability to provide the locations of your Spi—your _comrades_ —on the ship.” It's surprising, but he doesn't appear to be lying. “Moreover, I will also agree to release your Nen once you have proven your loyalty to Prince Woble.”

Kuroro raises an eyebrow and can’t fathom why he would make such a proposal. The last time they made an exchange, it only ended in temporary gains and severe losses for both of them. “Otherwise—”

Kurapika makes no effort to maintain the peace at their table. “Otherwise, I could care less if you die without your Nen. Your decision.”

A numbing silence sits in the air between them. Even Bill and Shimano have laid down their utensils, ceasing any effort to continue their meals, not daring to let out a breath. The tension only eases when a soft cry comes from the bedroom, and Queen Oito goes to check on Prince Woble.

She quickly returns with her child in her arms, holding her as she wails and wails, only becoming pacified when her curious eyes meets Kuroro’s own. As she approaches the table, Prince Woble continues observing him with a newfound calm, tears no more. This could prove to be troublesome, but there isn't room for any other option. Obligation can be masked as loyalty, debt as affection, and it’s a good thing that he’s more cunning than Kurapika could ever be.

“Your help will be greatly appreciated,” Queen Oito says softly. She rocks her child in her arms, settling in a seat next to him now. A child of a Meteor City native and the monarch of Kakin could not possibly be any ordinary child, but in this moment, she looks like any other infant swaddled in the arms of her mother, peering up at a stranger like him. “As promised, I will compensate you and do everything in my power to aid you in your own task, whatever that may be.”

“Alright,” Kuroro concedes, and Queen Oito smiles in gratitude. “I will do my best to be of help.”

Kurapika rises from his seat, gesturing for Kuroro to follow. “We can further discuss the conditions of this agreement.”

Kuroro taps his chest, right above the heart. “No chains?”

He receives curious looks from both Bill and Queen Oito, for they are possibly wondering what he means by this. He's expecting the thin chain to snake around his heart again, its small blade ready to pierce him at any moment.

“No,” Kurapika says slowly, the way he did the night before, “I want you to pledge your loyalty out of your own volition.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was such a struggle to write, because I despise Hisoka and not everyone is telling the truth in this chapter. Kuroro is also difficult to write at times, especially when I have to switch perspectives in every chapter. The last time I tried to do this for a fic, I ended up abandoning the fic. I'll do better in future chapters. 
> 
> The only thing that got me through was Kurapika's boyfriend shirt. Yes, Kurapika wearing Kuroro's clothes is to die for, but imagine Kuroro trying to wear Kurapika's clothes. Has the potential to be hilarious.
> 
> Please leave a comment. I'd love to know what you think about this chapter.
> 
> You can also reach out to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/seiyunablog) or [Tumblr](http://seiyuna.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustrated by the wonderful [vetur02](http://vetur02.tumblr.com/).  
>   
> Thank you so, so much for illustrating this scene from Chapter 2! It is the greatest honor I could have. If I die, please bury me with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so blessed to receive such a lovely rendition of this fic. <3 Please make sure to check out more of [vetur02](http://vetur02.tumblr.com/)'s artwork if you enjoyed this comic. I think you guys will love it! 
> 
> I'll do my best to update this fic soon! Thank you for your patience and support. +:)


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